Think In All Dimensions
by Redmorton
Summary: Challenge Fic for :Lets Write Sherlock on Tumblr, Challenge number one! Prompt: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then...


**_Author's Note: Please DO NOT tweet, email or otherwise refer to my fanfictions (or really, anyone else's) to the showrunners or anyone else on the cast and crew. Fanworks need to stay in fanspace._**

They weren't riding in a carriage through the cobbled streets of Victorian London. Sherlock wasn't in afternoon dress; a lovely black suit and over coat, his topper resting on his knee with his gloves folded underneath it. Watson, clean shaven, was knocked out of his day-dream when the hackney carriage mounted another speed bump. _Whack_. He frowned and kept a groan inside. The seat-belts were good for lateral movement. But not- _Whack_ -for the up and down.

The diesel would rumble into life as the driver pounded up the gears just to slam on the brakes moments later. _Whack_. To squeakily mount over the stupid half speed bumps that littered the residential areas of London. The black hackney carriage hit one at slightly the wrong angle and caused Watson to shift dramatically in his seat. He didn't get any where near to Sherlock but he apologised any way. _Whack_.

They remained in silence.

Sherlock lifted himself out of the cab and with wide strides got to the door of 221B and went inside. Watson stood by the cab, muttered a "Right, then" and paid. They hadn't had breakfast, not that it would have occurred to Sherlock. Watson was hungry and sorely tempted with a walk down the road to find some God-awful greasy breakfast substitute. The Spar had a deli, he could go for a sausage roll about now. The air rang with the hollow roar of another Heathrow arrival and he decided a confrontation was needed.

Some people have moods. Sherlock didn't really have the vast scale of moods that a normal person had. One day he would talk, and another day he wouldn't. However, his violin did have moods. As John Watson came up the stairs it was clear that Sherlock's violin was in a bad mood.

He played the violin very well. But there was a harshness to the tone and a slight scrape to the bow. Watson walked in to the rudimentary living room, Sherlock flicked one final note off the stings, whirled around and looked right at Watson.

"What?" He hissed and spat at the smaller man. The bow thrust out like a rapier.

"Could you imagine if everyone acted like you did when they were wrong?" Watson kept his voice low, spoke calmly even though the sight of a trembling Sherlock wielding a violin was threatening to make him laugh.

"Don't you understand! Of course you don't! No one does. I need to think." Sherlock turned around and played a few fast notes on the violin as he stared out of the front windows. Watson understood enough to know that Sherlock had just had all the conversation he was willing to have.

The two men could sit in silence for hours; ignoring the reason for the silences, happy, sad, angry, ill, fed up. The company was welcomed but they knew from each other that working together often meant little in the way of exchanges.

What had happened earlier that morning, or indeed late last night, had shook Sherlock a little too much. And in turn Sherlock had become angry at the fact that it did shake him up. Everyone had taken it in their stride, the world works in the way it does, and despite his brilliance it was often hard for Sherlock to accept that he couldn't predict the future or indeed change the past.

John Watson had finished a book and had popped out and got that sausage roll and a news paper. They had a small exchange over the state of the chair after the sausage roll was eaten but that was all that had been said between them these past four hours.

"John, I am not wrong."

"Hmm?" Watson looked up from the broadsheet and refocussed on his flat mate.

"I can't be wrong. Two plus two always equals four. I can't be wrong.

"Are we talking about the case or some long lost recently dredged up memory of primary school."

"Pay attention John." Sherlock now lounged on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling his fingers pyramided under his chin. "I simply said the box would be there, at the time we were there."

"Right, yes, that was what you said but-"

"BUT." Sherlock spun upright and looked across at Watson. "But it wasn't there. Did we look everywhere?"

"We did, the Met did. Remember, we were there for hours." Watson folded the paper up and slid it onto the table. "You're not saying that there's buried treasure surely." He refrained from an eye roll.

"What is under London, John? The one thing that we take for granted."

"The Underground, the Tube. But the box can't be there, I mean there are trains and people, and you know that you can't just leave a box of all things on an underground train."

"Read this, I will wait." Sherlock stood up, spun the laptop around on the desk and gestured at it. Reaching over Watson picked it up and pulled it onto his lap. It was open on a website.

_ . _

"When did you find this out?" Watson didn't need to read in depth, the title of the page alone gave him and idea of what Sherlock was getting to.

"Shortly after you left for your sausage roll."

"That was three hours ago."

"I enjoy your company."

There was a groan and a snap as Watson abruptly shut the lid of the laptop.


End file.
